Aléjandro

Emiliano Ruiz drove us through the night along deserted roads in the Tijuana River Valley. The roads weren’t completely deserted. A mile back we’d passed a truck, empty of merchandise with two of our men, killed. Bullet holes in the back of their heads.

“Fucking bratva,” Em said, his grip of the steering wheel loosening for the first time since we’d come across the carnage.

“We’ll find them. They can’t be too far ahead of us.” I sent a text ...